Strings
by Agent-014
Summary: When your mother holds your hand and shows you the string hanging on your wrist; your whole world changes and you're left with the knowledge that there's someone in the worldd that's perfect for you, and it's your mision to find them. When you do, you might even find yourself. You might even find a reason to live, an explanation to your existence.
1. RED

When John was six, his mother told him about the red string around his wrist, she told him about soul mates and true love, and promised him that if he was patient enough to seek for the end of his string, he'd find true meaning, true happiness, joy like no other.

A reason to be alive.

So he did, he searched for years.

In his youth, he used to play around and follow his string until he got tired or his mother called him back home, he had hope and no feelings of doubt, even thought he knew that the end of his string could be around the wrist of someone he couldn't love, or someone who couldn't love him back. He knew better than anyone, cause his father was not whom his mother should love, but she was okay with it, so he was okay with it too, at least for a while.

It wasn't as his father didn't love his mother, they were threaded, they loved each other more than anyone, but his father was weak and vicious, and sometimes he got drunk, drunk enough to forget his name, to forget his love and hurt his mother, and hurt them too. He usually stood up by Harry, trying to keep her safe, and he did what he could for his mother too. He used to think that his father could change and that it wasn't his fault, but as he grew up, his hopes got thinner.

He met new people, boys and girls at school; he met teachers and doctors, and family friends. He met people whose bond was so strong and pure and full of love that you could only look amazed at what they shared, you could do nothing but try to guess if they could actually read each other's thought and feelings, or if that was just a myth. He also met people whose bond was weak and fragile, so fragile that sometimes it broke, leaving both ends burnt and hurting, without knowing what had happened or how to fix it, leaving them lost and somehow empty. But he also met people whose bond had been cut by one of the threaded, whose bond was shattered after one of them cheated or left, because they couldn't love each other, because they refused, because they disagreed.

Just like his parents.

Soon, he forgot about the string around his wrist and kept on living, burying himself in books, getting good grades, trying to be popular, being a good son.

He went to college and decided he wanted to be a doctor, to help people, like he used to do when he was smaller, and helped his mother, like when he was just a child and had to learn to put himself back together. He graduated with good grades, not the best but close enough to make himself happy and proud, and soon enough he discovered he needed something else.

So he joined the army.

Being an army doctor changed his view of the world, made him realize how important a bond was for some people, because for those who had grown in a happily bonded family knew things he didn't know. He learned them fast, and something lit up inside him.

The old thirst of seeking and hunting the end of his string.

He pushed it back, because he was an army doctor, a captain and couldn't really dwell on those feelings.

Then he got shot and died.

Mind you, not for long, but his heart stopped and somewhere else in the world someone else felt the lost, even if just for a second. He was discharged from the army with an useless shoulder and a psychosomatic limp, just to add insult to the injure. He started to live again, or try to, because everything seemed dull and kind of dark around the edges since he felt the burning of the bullet on his side.

John soon found himself buried in dreams, nightmares, from the war; sometimes they were awful, where someone died because he wasn't good enough, because he couldn't save them. But other weren't as bad, where he could see himself from an outside point, the great soldier down in one knee, the wild sand dancing around him and a red patch growing round his shoulder and chest, his face pained but yet brave, cutting fabric and digging skin, taking the bullet out by himself and then falling backwards, looking at the sun and sighing.

Maybe it was sad, that the nights he slept best were the nights he dreamed of dying.

But yet, he kept on living.

He kept on living because he needed to find the end of his string, because right now everything seemed pointless and he needed it; a reason to live.

He was desperate for it, so he hung on tight to the red string around his wrist and faced the days, and nights. He got a therapist and tried hard to ignore the gun under his pillow, never mind the nights when he would clean it and craved a bullet on his temple, anything to take him out of his misery. But he didn't give up, not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't, not yet, first he needed to know what was waiting for him at the other end, and whatever it was he would take it, because when you reach the bottom the only way left is upwards.

One day he met with an old friend of his, Mike Stamford, and they went for a coffee. John tried to ignore the knowing looks his friend was throwing at him, because he knew, he looked like someone who had died and was barely hanging there, he knew it was the truth so he didn't tried to hide it, he didn't want to. He talked to Mike and told him about some of his less troublesome inconvenient; his new apartment was a bit of hole, and Mike smiled and told him he had the perfect solution for it. They went down to St Bart's and John couldn't help but notice that things had changed since his last visit, including the labs, last time he was there only people who worked there or students were allowed.

-Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine- said the man of the long coat, who was roaming around the lab as if he owned it.

-What's wrong with the landline?- Mike questioned.

-I prefer to text- The man urged.

-Ah, sorry, it's on my coat- Mike shrugged with a bit of a smile.

-Eh… you can use mine- Ventured John, trying to be nice and fishing his mobile out of his pocket.

-Thank you- Said the man, giving John a brief up and down.

-Well, this is an old friend of mine, John Watson- Mike finally introduced him.

It's kind of funny, how destiny works, how live takes meaning, because what happened next was not what anyone expected, well, maybe Mike and Molly should have known that the man couldn't keep his mouth shut, and that tact was not exactly his area of expertise, they should have known that, but yet, they let it happen, and with a single question John's live was turned upside down.

-Afghanistan or Iraq?


	2. BLUE

When Sherlock was six, his father died.

His mother was broken by the lost and the end of her string turned black, she tied it around her wrist like a bow and never touched it again, like a black bracelet adorning her arm, but more significant that a simple piece of jewelry.

He learned soon enough that when someone lost his threaded they had two options.

To cut the rest of the black of their string and tie the red left around their wrist, in a manner that would let people know of their lost but also of their new spirits, to show they were over the pain and ready to face the world anew, and to find love again.

Or to tie the black around their wrist in a sign of mourning, to keep new people at bay, to warn them of their broken heart and their promise to never love again, at least not in the way they loved their threaded.

Sherlock's mother and father loved each other in a way that was mesmerizing, and as a child he was fascinated by it, how love could make his parents glow and the way they acted around each other made him believe the old lady tales that some threaded could read each other's thoughts, and sometimes feel each other's emotions. That kind of bond made them stronger, and the family they had shared a love that seemed endless.

But then his father died, his mother got sad, and Mycroft closed his heart.

Sherlock always wondered why.

Why would his brother give up on his string? And when he asked his brother this, the answer made him discover the faults in a bond.

-Caring is not an advantage, it makes you depend on someone, and that someone can be taken away- Mycroft said, his voice low and eyes sad- Look at mummy and tell me what you see, can you still recognize her strength? Because I can't, she depended on dad, and now he's gone, and he took every power she had with him.

Caring is not an advantage, he learned that, he memorized it and lived up to it.

He spent his time divided between science and his mother, trying to cheer her up and studying, experimenting with chemicals and making the kitchen blow up once in a while. He tried to prove Mycroft wrong but he never could, and he hated that fact with all his heart. He knew deep inside that caring was not a disadvantage, but now he had no way to be certain, he had to observe and experiment, and one day he could bring Mycroft a report on it, with scientific facts, things that couldn't be denied, and show him that love was a different kind of strength.

Then he went to school and met new people, he met boys and girls, and teachers and librarians, and family friends. He started to notice, how the girls talked about their end of sting and how they dreamed of someone gentle with bright eyes, who could love them and treat them like princesses, and how boys seemed to believe that a supermodel was waiting for them at the end of their string, how they could care less about anything that wasn't physical.

Soon enough, he met people with bonds strong enough to help him prove his theory, a teacher whose bond seemed to be as strong as the one his parents used to share, and he spend time observing her, after all, he already knew everything about math. He got a lot of information from that teacher, but then again, he could have gotten it from his parents long time ago.

People around him started to notice strange things about his personality, and to detach themselves from him, they started to call him names, and to make remarks about his string, they started to notice how he would spend his time observing those already threaded and how he could care less about his own string, they started to label him.

Heartless, freak, weirdo…

Names that make Sherlock's blood boil, what was their problem? He wasn't doing anything wrong, he just wanted to know about the strings and the bonds, and he couldn't do experiments on himself because he wasn't threaded yet, his string was useless as far as he knew, because most people found their other end way ahead on life and he was yet too young. He ignored them, and kept his distance, he started to experiment on them too, to see how people changed when they finally found their threaded, but for that he first had to know how they acted before that.

In high school things got worse, he became a handsome little man, and girls tried to get on dates with him, thing that make him feel a bit sick, because he couldn't imagine love out of a bond, he had grown in a traditional house, and had spent most of his life learning how bonds worked, learning about people's intentions and desires, learning how they expressed themselves, how to read people like books.

And of course, he spent so much time going around strings that he forgot about the wrists they were tied to, he forgot about people and forgot to grow a filter.

So, when he started to tell girls their faults before rejecting them he saw no wrongs being done, but of course, everyone else did.

He became a monster, and people ran away from him, he was left alone and then he realized decided to stay that way.

Then came Victor Trevor and his life was turned around.

He gave up, and let the boy love him, because what else was to be done?

After all Victor did to gain his attention, he could only give up, ignore the fact that they weren't actually threaded and love him back. They shared some amazing nights, just talking and trying to figure out where their string would end, trying to figure out how to pass their classes at University, just regular things, and he not once he was reminded of the nicknames, and the stares people would give him walking around the halls, he managed to forgot who he was.

And then they graduated, Victor found his other end, and Sherlock remembered his brother's words as they were carved on his bones by the pain of being forgotten.

"_Caring is not an advantage."_

He stopped trying to prove Mycroft wrong and gave up once more, this time he gave up on his string, and let himself break down, he gave up to his research on bonds and started to study the effects of certain drugs on the body. This time he could experiment on himself, and he did. He became an addict and destroyed himself, in and out, he stopped eating, he forgot to sleep, and soon enough he also overdosed and died.

Two minutes and fifteen seconds, that was the time it took for the paramedics to make his heart work again, and somewhere in the world, someone felt him dying, even if just a little bit.

After that he met DI Lestrade, and somehow, he kept on living.

He became the first and only consultative detective in the world, and managed to create a new face for himself, this time he didn't let people mark him as heartless, he ripped his hear himself and told people he was a sociopath, he looked down at people before they could look down at him, he learned to live only for himself, and to live up to his brother's words.

One day he found the end of his string and whatever fire inside his heart died down, leaving his chest with only a freezing black hole, black as the end of his string, meaning that whoever at the end had died.

Well, Sherlock was not going to mourn them, so he cut the black and tied the string around his wrist, letting people know he was over the pain, but kept on with the heartless charade, so people knew he was never going to love.

Funny thing, Sherlock thought that was all his life, everything ahead was just him solving cases and then dying, nothing else. He never thought he would add anything to his life motto, or that his live could change in one meeting, but then it did. He met John Watson and suddenly he wasn't so sure about the future, and of course, he knew something had changed in his nightly prayer.

Just a little bit of doubt was all he needed.

Caring is a (not?) an advantage


	3. YELLOW

After an awkward meeting that involved people thinking they were a couple, homicidal cabbies and stupid consultative detectives, John thought he could actually see himself living with Sherlock Holmes.

The man had cured his psychosomatic limp in half a day and then got rid of his tremor in a blink, even if his methods weren't conventional they obviously worked, and John started feel a bit more alive, more prepared to face life and give it a try.

It was no secret that Sherlock's threaded was dead, but he dared not to ask, he usually found himself staring at the red string tied around the detective's wrist, like and ornament that he carried proudly, as if being alone was something to show off, and even if John couldn't understand, he let it pass and put it aside in the list of things about Sherlock that amazed him and scared him at the same time, right next to keeping human limbs in the fridge and talking to a skull.

He also started to work with him, to become part of his life and discover the good and the bad of it.

He found out about the drugs but never knew why someone like Sherlock would ever waste his brain in something like that, he learned about the brother but couldn't really understand why they "hated" each other that much, even when he could understand the not really liking one's familiars, he couldn't imagine the idea of making his own sister his archenemy.

He also discovered what people thought of Sherlock Holmes, and his blood boiled at the idea of someone calling the man heartless, freak and other names.

So it was no surprise that he grew to hate Donovan and Anderson, and also half of the yard.

"_He's such a freak."_

"_Heartless bastard, he only brings problems."_

"_I heard he killed his own threaded."_

"_He's a sociopath, he's crazy and dangerous."_

"_Here comes the weirdo again, he disturbs me."_

"_He has no feelings; I bet that he doesn't even have a heartbeat."_

John had to bite his tongue every time they were at the yard, he heard people talking and felt nothing but rage eating him alive, because Sherlock was right and they were merely idiots.

Sherlock was a bit out of the ordinary and maybe a little bit cold towards some people, but John got to see the gentle side of the detective and hated when people talked about him like that, especially when they murmured things about his threaded, it was always a hard blow to discover one's string burnt at the end, so he could understand the distaste for the red string tied firmly around his wrist, and he admired Sherlock for being able to walk around wearing a reminder of how alone he was.

John was sure that if he ever found his end like that he would simply die, right on the spot, because he had no other reason to live more than finding his threaded, so he shook the idea out of mind as he curled up in the couch, staring at the mug on his hand, feeling the tea warm his hands and closed his eyes, just listening to Sherlock, who was playing the violin for once, not just making noise but actually playing.

He definitely could get used to this.

To say Sherlock was amazed by John Watson was an understatement. He found the doctor to be a walking contradiction, because at first sight you'd think he was nothing special, with his good natured look and gentle smile, but then had killed a man for him, and Sherlock Holmes had never being more interested in someone before.

It surprised him that John thought his deductions to be interesting and would always feel his heart stop whenever the doctor would whisper a "_Brilliant_" almost as he didn't realized he was saying it out loud. Sherlock liked John, and even if he hated himself for it, he had grown to _**care**_ for John, and so he wished and dreaded for the day he found the end of his string.

It was the first time, since his mother, that he wished something good for someone else, but he couldn't help but notice how John seemed to cling to his string and how all his hopes where on it, so he really wished the best for his _friend_ and thought that whoever at the end of that string better be worthy of such a man like John Watson or he would make that person pay.

But he also couldn't help it and felt fear for that day, because there were so many bad outcomes and he couldn't really imagine what to do in one of these occasions.

What if John's threaded was an asshole? That at least he could ensure was not fatal, they could work around it, and he could even convince John of leaving that person, or beat the crap out of his friend's threaded and make them change their attitude.

But what if his threaded was dead? That was the idea that scared Sherlock the most, because he knew John only lived to find his other end, he'd seen the bad sides of John, the way some days he'll act sad and quiet, thinking about never finding something, and Sherlock couldn't handle that, he knew that if John's other end was black, he'll find his friend dead that same day.

That thought scared him senseless.

In the meantime, he decided, he'd try and make of John's life the best he could give; solving cases, chasing after _murderers -_and eating in restaurants where people always thought they were together-and Sherlock couldn't help but wish they were. Of course, he never let anyone know about his feelings, because people thought he didn't have the ability to feel anything at all, but he did, he was just good at hiding, and acting as if he couldn't care less. He acted like that around John too, at least most of the time, calling him idiot once in a while and leaving him behind with The Yard at crime scenes, he couldn't let John know he _cared_.

Caring was not an advantage.

And he never wanted to make John Watson care about him.


	4. BLACK

Sebastian Wilkes was a man that John Watson never wanted to see again.

Actually, he did, and next time they crossed paths he might as well strangle him. The things the man had said about Sherlock left him enraged and wishing nothing but to shut the man's mouth with a punch. Sherlock didn't allow it; he remained calm and smiled cynically at his old "friend" and took the case, solved and charged a bit extra, taking the man's money with him and taking John out for dinner with the money.

-How could you let him say such things about you?- Asked John, after a while of pretending that the latest events hadn't happened- Doesn't it bothers you? When people talk like that about you?

-No, John, I don't care about what people think of me, that's their problem and not mine- Answered Sherlock, looking at John and silently asking him to drop the subject- I really don't care about others.

-But you do. That's the thing, isn't it? You do care and they act like they know everything about you, like they have any right to judge you- John stabbed his food with the fork and looked straight at Sherlock's eyes- They act like they really believe you have no heart, like you don't have people you care about, like they think you can't have any friends.

-I don't have friends, John- That made the blond blink and gape, almost like he was just punched in the gut and Sherlock smiled softly, looking at him with something bright in his eyes- I only have one.

-You cock! You scared me- Said John laughing, and just like that they forgot about Sebastian Wilkes.

Days started to pass and Sherlock hated the fact that he couldn't keep his charade for too long, he cared about John Watson and he'd made John Watson care about him. The soldier always made sure he ate, and slept, they faced Scotland Yard together and ran after criminals, laughing like it was the time of their lives.

He couldn't blame people for thinking they were a couple.

Mostly because he wished they were.

And at the same time he wished for John to find his threaded soon and be happy, that was all he wanted, and it made him proud of himself that he actually thought about befriending whoever was at the other end.

Whatever he needed to do to keep John close, he would do.

Meeting Molly's boyfriend had been such a strange event, John was mad at him for saying out loud that the man was gay, but also was kind of grateful that he'd kept for himself the fact that the man was also already threaded, John couldn't understand why would the man try and date Molly if he was threaded to another man, and to be honest, Sherlock couldn't care less, he had other things on his mind.

Like the bomber and Moriarty.

He couldn't worry about Molly's boyfriend.

Maybe he should have guessed they would be the same man.

-What would you like me to make him say next?- Asked John, a bomb strapped to his chest in the middle of the pool where he was supposed to meet Moriarty, being used as a pawn, just another beep in the countdown of the game- Gottle O'geer, gottle O'geer, gottle O'geer.

-Stop it- Pleaded Sherlock, his heart beating fast and his eyes never leaving John's.

-Nice touch, this; the pool were little Carl died. I stopped him- John cringed, closing his eyes and letting a sigh scurry through his lips- I can stop John Watson too… Stop his heart.

-Who are you?- Sherlock's voice was calm, but he was sure that his entire body was trembling at the idea of John getting killed.

-I gave you my number, thought you might call- Said a man, stepping from behind a pillar but leaving his face under the cover of shadows- Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

-Both- Answered Sherlock, taking the gun out and pointing it at the man in the shadows.

-Jim Moriarty. Hi!- The man finally came out of the shadows, in a neat suit and bright smile on his lips, completely unafraid of the gun pointed at his head- Jim, from the hospital. Remember?

-You're Molly's boyfriend- Said Sherlock, surprised.

-Shhh! Don't you say that, not in from of my darling- The string tied around Moriarty's wrist tensed and the laser point moved to Sherlock's head. Jim simply smiled and looked at the direction where the laser seemed to come from, waved and blew a kiss- Hi Seb! Keep your eyes on the kind doctor, please, my love.

-Your threaded is the sniper? Typical- Sherlock rolled his eyes.

-You're one to talk- Scorned Moriarty, clapping his hands- Well, let's go back to business.

The business took a whole night to resolve, John and Sherlock almost getting blown up, Moriarty being a bipolar asshole and "Seb" pointing his red laser point at whoever he took as a thread to his beloved threaded.

At the end, Sherlock couldn't tell who was more exhausted; John, Lestrade, Mycroft or himself.

His brother was always a pain in the ass, but his threaded let Sherlock walk around the Yard like he owned it, so he was grateful for that.

But right now, Lestrade was being as much as a pain in the ass as Mycroft, forbidding John and Sherlock from coming to cases and insisting about them getting some time to get their heads cleared and go back to normal.

As if they ever were normal.

But they did anyways, too their time, that's it.

They took a couple of days of sleeping in and having lazy mornings, going for a walk at the park and get some fresh air, have calm nights reading or playing the violin, eating out or trying (and failing) to cook at home.

It felt so marvelously like normal that Sherlock couldn't help but think he could get used to it.

And feel like the end of the world was coming when everything went to hell.

Because then John decided to go for a walk alone.

And found the end of his string.

It had been severed.


	5. GOLDEN

When John comes back he just runs the stairs up to his room and locks the door, looking without seeing, his eyes clouded by tears he stubbornly refuses to spill. His mind is reeling and trying to find an explanation, an action course, he doesn't know how to feel and his body feels hot, like he's being burned alive, and he doesn't know what to do.

What to do now?

What to live for now?

His mind is a storm of ideas and thoughts and faces of people he knows and names that pass by in a rush without being even acknowledged, memories from his childhood, the soft laugh of his mother, the hugs Harry gave him, the hands he's shaken and Sherlock's violin is playing in the background, his curls, his extremely rare smile. John feels like he's dying and seeing his life passing by, he's scared and sad and doesn't know what to do.

What to do now?

Where does he keeps the gun?

He's launching himself across the room in a second, opening drawers and searching for his army gun to put an end to it all, a bullet to the head is the easiest way out, and he needs a way out, he's nothing now. His own threaded cut the other end, there's nothing for him.

There's nothing to live now.

Except there might be something still, someone.

And that someone it's pounding at the door right now, calling for him, softly asking if he's okay and what happened, reassuring him that whatever it is they can fix it, because that's how Sherlock is, he believes he can fix everything, because he's a genius, he's brave and magnificent and he might be able to fix almost everything.

Not this thought.

Not him thought.

So John keeps searching, throwing everything he owns to the floor, not giving a single fuck, because he's going to die tonight anyways, why should he care about the clothes on the floor or the mess in the room? They'd clean it away as they clean his blood off the floor and his brain from the walls.

John doesn't know when he starts to lose the battle against his feeling but now they're drowning him and there's still no way out. He has no knives on his room, because who does? Maybe Sherlock does, he's weird like that, but not John, John might just have to stay there and wait to die of starvation, or a broken heart, whatever comes first because he can't find his gun.

And then he remembers Sherlock lost it at the pool.

And the pounding on his door is becoming frantic, and the soft reassurances are now pleadings for John to open the door, to tell Sherlock what happened and to let him help.

-I found my string's end- John says, walking closer to the door but not opening it, just staring at it as if he could see through and find Sherlock's face at the other side- It was severed, they cut it, Sherlock. There was no one waiting for me.

-John… Please let me in, open the door- Sherlock's voice sounds strained and something cold settles on John's stomach at the thought of what his friend must be feeling- We can fix this, please, John, let me in, we can fix this.

-Not this time, I'm sorry but I can't, there's nothing for me now, Sherlock- He lift his hands and caress the door, where he knows Sherlock's forehead has dropped and his messy curls rest at the other side- I don't have anything to live for, Sherlock.

-You do, John, you have so many things to live for, please don't give up on them- Sherlock is crying, he knows it, he knows it because he's crying too now- Don't give up on me.

-You'll be fine, you are so strong, Sherlock, learning to live again- Sherlock chokes on a sob at the other side and John's heart constrict- But I can't, I'm not strong like you, I'm fragile and weak and there's no way I can keep going.

-You can, John, you can, I'll push you all the way to the finish line if I have to but please don't give up, don't leave me, I'm not strong, if you go you take me with you- John's heart stops at the seriousness in Sherlock's voice, and his body trembles- If you die, I die with you.

-You can't do that!- John yells, opening the door to find Sherlock holding two knives on his hands, his knuckles are white and he's shaking, crying softly and looking vulnerable in a way that Sherlock Holmes should never look- You can't do that.

-I can, and I will, you won't be here to stop me!- Sherlock answers, his eyes burning with determination, never mind how pale he looks and how his voice quivers- You won't be here to stop me and I'll follow, I'll slit my throat and follow you to wherever we go, but if you give up, then I give up. I can't do this John, I can't let you do this.

-Sherlock…- John's voice shakes just as badly as himself, the words barely a whisper as he takes the knives from Sherlock's hands- … You can do this, you must, you're strong enough to keep going on, you should keep going on.

-So do you, so do you and you are giving up on everything, you keep saying I'm strong… BUT I'M NOT! When I found my string burnt I overdosed, I died, I let my life go to hell but my brother brought me back and apologized for the trash he put inside my head and loved me so much that I had no more option than keep going, so I kept going and discovered life might just be worth it, never mind if there's someone at the other side of your string or not, you still can love, you still can be loved- Sherlock is a mess by now, eyes pained but decided and he takes John's hand on his- I love you John, I love you and I can't let you go, because this might hurt even more than finding this piece of string burnt some years ago, this is not going to be like that time, when I almost died, if I lose you, John, there's not going to be an almost; I'm going to die, John.

-Please… stop…- John pleads, sobs escaping his lips as he looks at the man breaking in front of him and can't stop thinking that he broke him, John exploded and he took Sherlock with him, can he really die if it means taking Sherlock with him?- Just… stop, there's nothing else… nothing…

-if it really bothers you so much, then fine…- Sherlock says, and violently takes John's wrist and the severed end of string, then he starts to unroll the burnt string on his own wrist, taking both ends and tying them together.

Knot after knot after knot.

John just stares with his mouth open and his heart racing, counting on his head how many knots Sherlock does.

He counts more than twenty and then loses track by looking somewhere else, because he can't take the way Sherlock's hands shake and how his fingers move clumsily and desperate.

-Here, there's someone at the end now, you found what you've been searching….- Sherlock can't keep talking, he's just sobbing now, clutching at the tied strings like his life depends on it, and it does, John muses with sudden realization, because this is Sherlock's last move and this is where the game ends-…I love you…

John looks at the man in front of him, breaking down and falling to his knees, still holding to the red sting and taking it to his chest as he curls on himself and sobs, because he can taste death, because he's afraid of it, because he's brilliant and loves life and he's good at living, and helping others to live and yet he's ready to give up on it just for John.

And John drops to his knees too, cradling Sherlock's face as if it were the most precious thing on earth, and kisses him. Softly and slowly, tasting the salty tears on both of their faces and stays there until he feels his lungs are burning from lack of oxygen.

-I love you too- He whispers into Sherlock's hair as he hugs him and they both cry, they both think and both of their lives go in front of their eyes, but they won't let it go.

They both hold to it for dear life.

They both hold to it for each other.

And Sherlock lets out a chocked laugh and a relieved sigh and it feels like everything is going to be fine.

John knows it will be, because he finally found what he searched for all his life.

After years of seeking and learning he found the other end of his strings and he cannot be happier with what he finds there.

Sherlock is, after all, worth living for.


End file.
